You see, we dare abide your dangerous presence, Though treason sits within your heart enthroned, And on that brow rebellion lours, where once Such boasted loyalty was said to flourish. How low the traitor can degrade the soldier! Guilt glares in conscious dye upon thy cheek, And inward horror trembles in thine eye. How mean is fraud! How base ingratitude! _Essex._ Forbear reproach, thou injured majesty, Nor wound with piercing looks, a heart already With anguish torn, and bleeding with remorse. Your awful looks, alone, are arm'd with death, And justice gives them terror. _Qu. Eliz._ Hapless man! What cause could prompt, what fiend could urge thee on To this detested deed? Could I from thee Expect to meet this base return? from thee, To whom I ought to fly with all the confidence That giving bounty ever could inspire, Or seeming gratitude and worth could promise? _Essex._ Alas! I own my crimes, and feel my treasons; They press me down beneath the reach of pity. Despair alone can shield me from myself. _Qu. Eliz._ My pride forbids me to reproach thee more; My pity, rather, would relieve thy sorrow. The people's clamours, and my special safety, Call loud for justice, and demand your life. But if forgiveness from an injured queen Can make the few short hours you live more easy, I give it freely, from my pitying heart; And wish my willing power could grant thee more. _Essex._ Oh, let me prostrate thus before you fall, My better angel, and my guardian genius! Permit me, royal mistress, to announce My faithful sentiments, my soul's true dictates; Vouchsafe your Essex but this one request, This only boon--he'll thank you with his last, His dying breath, and bless you in his passage. _Qu. Eliz._ Rise, my lord! If aught you have to offer can allay Your woes, and reconcile you to your fate, Proceed;--and I with patient ear will listen. _Essex._ My real errors, and my seeming crimes, Would weary mercy, and make goodness poor; And yet the source of all my greatest faults Was loyalty misled, and duty in extreme. So jealous was my sanguine heart, so warm Affection's zeal, I could not bear the least Suspicion of my duty to my queen. This drove me from my high command in Ireland; This, too, impell'd me to that rude behaviour, Which justly urged the shameful blow I felt; And this, O fatal rashness! made me think My queen had given her Essex up, a victim To statesmen's schemes, and wicked policy. Stung by that piercing thought, my madness flew Beyond all bounds, and now, alas! has brought me To this most shameful fall; and, what's still worse, My own reproaches, and my queen's displeasure. _Qu. Eliz._ Unhappy man! My yielding soul is touch'd, And pity pleads thy cause within my breast.